


The Painter

by KAL (JadeElite)



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Multiple Endings, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 10:11:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16116263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeElite/pseuds/KAL
Summary: You meet your muse, Norman Reedus, at a convention and he admires your art. Later he and some friends end up at the bar you work at, and somebody is lucky enough to take you home. Fluffy First chapter with eventual smut and pregnancy and two alternate smut endings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have to preface this by saying, I don’t usually write Norm because I don’t know how. He’s a real person, and you can only know so much about a person and their personality and the way they’d react to something from what you see online. Fictional characters are nice because you don’t have to worry about what you don’t know, everything you need to know is clear and everything between those points is open game to play with. But real people… well I’d hate to have them find what I’ve written and dislike it because of how I portray them, or be put off because it is admitatly a bit creepy. I know I”m over thinking this, but this is my pre-emptive apology for the one in a billion chance that Norman occasionaly reads the weird ass stuff we all write and happens upon this.

           This can’t actually be happening. You sit tensely in the folding chair, both anxiously and excitedly gripping the sides till your knuckles are white. You’re running a booth in the artist alley of your local convention, primarily showing off your walking dead themed work, knowing that the cast would be here for panels and so many of their fans would be out and about this year.

           Unfortunately, you were unable to attend any of those panels, as you had to man the booth by yourself. A friend should have been here to cover for you, but unfortunately, they caught convention flu already and were bed-ridden by the bug, leaving you to manage things alone.

           Still, it seems to be your lucky day. Although you missed seeing them in their panels, it seems a few of the cast decided to come to check out the art their fans have done of them. You weren’t the only one who had the thought to make their show their primary theme, seeing as half the hall is filled with work showing their appreciation of the zombie show. Now, much to your surprise, the man who is the inspiration for the bulk of your work is approaching the table.

           You stand quickly, if a bit nervously, as Mr. Norman Reedus stops at the booth, eyes glancing over the paintings and prints on display before landing on you. His crooked grin leaves you speechless, so you’re stuck standing there with your mouth working and nothing coming out. You’re getting sucked into those blue eyes, and that’s not helping things either.

           “I uhm… you’re going to have to start the conversation cause uhm… my brain just is not knowing where to start.” You finally manage to say. There isn’t just a fear of embarrassing yourself that is keeping you from talking. One of your most significant concerns is to meet the people you admire and have them think of you as ‘just another fangirl.’ Although there’s little that can be done to avoid that, this speechless starstruck mode certainly doesn’t help your case.

           Norman chuckles, which is a good sign, to say the least. “You’ve got a lot of interesting stuff out here.” He seems to be observing you, and you can’t help letting your mind race about what he must be thinking about you. “I can tell you put a lot of hard work into it, I appreciate that, love being able to see what people do to express their feelings about the show.”

           You really hope you aren’t blushing, that would be embarrassing. “Thanks. Yeah, I put a lot of thought into my art.” There’s a lock of hair in your eyes, so you quickly brush it out of the way, catching that grin become a bit softer. “Sometimes it’s like… representing things in a single 2D image can be hard when you’re working with multiple layers of symbolism and color theory. Especially when you consider time as a factor, how do you show multiple points in time and it’s passage in an unchanging picture?”

           Norman nods, once again looking over the art at your booth. Admiring it? “I get what you’re saying. You definitely seem to take a different perspective than what I usually see at these booths, but you do a… beautiful job at representing your ideas. You really have some talent.”

           Now you’re positively blushing, from both his words and the way he is looking at you when his gaze returns. “Wow, I uhm, I don’t know what to say. Thank you, I’ve never had somebody say something like that about my paintings.” There’s some hesitation before you gain the confidence to propose something. “I have more than what’s on display, I have copies of my other pieces, photos of paintings.” You had done everything from fanworks to your interpretation of Renaissance work. One of the things you prided yourself on was the fact that you never let artist block stop you. If you were stuck, you pulled out a sheet of cardboard and started throwing paint at it till something comes to you, or doodled in a sketchbook until it grew into something better.

           “Really? I’d love to see them.” Norm leans on the table as you turn to rummage through the storage container behind you, there are multiple binders, each focusing on a different theme. You end up pulling out the bulkiest one, a bit afraid he might end up thinking you a weirdo for having so many pieces on the subject.

           “So, I’m going to say, I do actually do a lot of different things when I paint… But I kind of want to show you… more of the stuff I’ve done of you…?” It’s quite evident that you’re nervous, and when you turn around again, he’s leaning closer, fascinated and excited. Oh no, now your heart is racing.

           “Well, I am just a tiny bit of a narcissistic bastard who loves seeing paintings of himself.” Norman teases. As soon as you lay the binder in front of him he starts thumbing through the pages of photos. The art covers a lot of his career, from his early work as well as his current. The Saints have quite a large section, and you’ve taken to representing Travis in a form similar to the way he did his art in Gossip. There is also much of just Norman as Norman, attempting to portray him as you’ve seen in the media, from what he posts to social sites, and your own little fantasies. He is quiet as he takes in the pictures, but smiling, occasionally chuckling at the sight of your more amusing appearing paintings, and looking up with a raised eyebrow at some of your more… sexualized pieces.

           Suddenly he stops, eyes widening as he takes in a particular painting. You crane your neck to see what he’s looking at, and your breath catches a bit. It was one of your most difficult ones; an expression of time, like you, were talking about. Mixed media, a base of ink and wax pencils topped with acrylics to make a detailed image of Mr. Reedus aging. Starting on the left, you can see the soft skin of baby Norman, as he was in Floating. Progressing towards the right he slowly becomes older, the hair length shifts and shifts between light and dark, yet you manage to merge each stage so that it appears almost natural, the color a shift in lighting source. The stubble becomes more pronounced as your eyes move across the chin. But those beautiful blue eyes are ageless, remaining piercing and captivating through all of the time.

           You catch his hand running over the titanium reconstruction sections of his face. Even that you managed to show the way time and life happened, blending young and fresh face sculpture into rebuilding. Somehow you being able to seamlessly merge the pre and post-accident timeframes make it even more pronounced. It wasn’t your intention, and you feel guilty, fearing it causes him to be embarrassed or upset.

           When Norman looks up he clearly catches something in your expression, the grin is gone, and there’s a seriousness about him. “This one is amazing, did it take you long.”

           “Maybe half a year…” Your reply. “Most of that time was spent drawing and researching, figuring out the shifts and how to fit it all together.”

           “Do you still have this one?”

           “Yeah, yeah I like to hold onto my favorites.” Quickly you realize how strange that might sound, but he responds before you can save yourself.

           “Shame, I would have loved to buy it.” He smiles. “I should probably head off, not fair to everybody else if I spend the rest of the day here now is it?”

           You nod, a bit disappointed. “It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Reedus,.” He snorts at the way you call him. “If it’s not too much to ask, could I possibly… hug you?” Your cheeks must look like tomatoes by now.

           “Of course!.” Norman steps back from the booth while you move from behind it. His arms wrap around you and yours around him. It feels fantastic, you don’t get hugs that often and the feeling of human contact is a sweet sensation. He hugs you tightly, and you enjoy the smell of whatever cologne he’s wearing. Something inside you doesn’t ever want to let go.


	2. Chapter 2

          “A round of the house brew.” A handsome man leans on your counter. “Got seven in my group.” (Readers now is the point where I inform you that I have never set foot in any kind of bar, so I’m totally making this up as I go and probably none of this is how a bar works.)

           “Sure thing Mr. Flannery, I’ll have it out to your table in just a minute.” You love when the conventions roll through town. If you don’t meet exciting people while you’re selling your paintings and prints at the event, you absolutely do when night falls and your shift tending one of the local bars begins.

           “Oh, aren’t I lucky to have such a beautiful young woman know my name without me introducing myself.” Sean has a grin that can make a lady’s heart melt. It’s one of the more upscale bars in the area, while also remaining off the main strip, so it’s not flooded by the standard convention attendees. You glance at the ID badge that still hangs onto his shirt, proudly displaying his name, and making no comment of it until he looks down himself and sighs.

But before he becomes too embarrassed you comment that “I’ve been a Saint’s fan since the first movie released, was a teen at the time. Been starstruck by you and Reedus ever since. So it makes me quite glad that I get to serve you tonight.”

“Ah well, you might be even more excited to know that my buddy’s here with me tonight.” Sean glances back, and your eyes follow to the table. There’s a fluttering in your chest at the familiar sight of your favorite crossbow-wielding zombie slayer portraying actor. Despite having already seen him today, talked to him, hugged him, it was still a magical moment being able to look across the room and see that chestnut hair and blue eyes. Sean catches the look on his face before snorting a laugh. “Well, I’ll go tell the others that drinks are on the way then.”

Honestly, it’s all great for your bank account, that’s one of the best parts. Although selling art is touch and go (only possible for some of the events anyways,) when you sell you sell a lot, get some extra money to buy some new furniture, buy up some cool stuff at the other booths, or take time off to paint. Still, if you don’t catch the needs of the crowd right, you’re lucky to make enough to cover your fees.

As you tray up the drinks, you glance in the mirror behind the row of bottles. Hair? Neatly tied up and astonishing looking. Make-up? Done just the way you like it, nobody can tell it was done during the five minute rush between getting home from the convention and getting ready for work. Clothes? A polished, professional look, but still just saucy enough to score a few extra tips.

This establishment may not always attract the highest class of customer, but when that convention center was full up the cream of the crop typically made it through those doors. The upper business men of big expos, the art curators during exhibitions, and most importantly the guest stars of the conventions. On these occasions, the real money is made by the river of tips you receive. Some people are stingy, but they’re more than made up for by the businessmen who think a big tip will get them your number, or an older gentleman who says you remind him of his granddaughter. And no matter what you’re always able to get a nice bonus from a group like tonight, be a sweet fan and compliment on work most people don’t compliment them for but don’t be overbearing and ruin the evening of trying to be isolated from the spotlight. Perhaps you’re a player, knowing just how to get a person to bump their tip by an extra ten or fifteen or thirty percent, but it keeps the lights on.

“Got a round of the house brew for everybody.” Your smile is natural and sweet, years ago you were practically hired on the spot for it. The glasses are passed out in a counter-clockwise order, while you make eye contact with each person at the large booth. No two reactions are the same, but they all smile back, and a few are grinning like idiots, including Sean.

You linger for a touch too long when your eyes meet those magnificent blue ones, they’re covered a bit by his dark bangs. There’s heat in your cheeks as Norman recognizes you, and smiles brighter for it.

“Well, aren’t you a familiar face.” He leans forward. “Somehow I had a feeling that wouldn’t be the last I saw of you.”

You freeze for a moment, before realizing you still have to give the other’s their drinks. “Fate works in funny ways I suppose.” You clear your throat and finish handing things out. “Is there anything else I can get for you guys?”

They end up getting the three cheese nachos and a few more drinks. When you return, Norman is in the middle of telling the group about your booth in artist alley, talking up the paintings. You spend the night pouring drinks and ferrying items to the tables of the larger groups. Every time you pass by Norman and Sean’s table you find a few extra seconds to chat with the group, talk about their work and yours. A few of them mention stopping by your booth tomorrow if you’d have it up and running.

Each time you and Norman meet eyes you’re heart starts to race, and you can feel your cheeks go pink. You like how he bites his lip while listening to you talk, or laughs when you make a joke. If only you could spend the entire night at this table, you’d likely die of happiness. But if wishes were fishes, you’d smell like a dock, and there are other patrons to attend to and the night is short.

You step outside for a smoke break. There are so many people, and it’s loud, and you have to put on so many faces. It’s exhausting. So while it might not be your most exceptional habit at least, it distracts you for a moment. The alley is specked with a few of the guests who needed their breaks too, and the ground is littered with cigarette butts. You try to get out here and clean up when you can, but with all the traffic this week it’s hard to keep up.

The flame of your lighter creates a tiny ball of light in the dark night. For what you can see around you, you’d wonder if the alley is full of fireflies, all you can see are the tips of them when they light up as somebody takes a drag or the ones smoldering half snuffed laying scattered on the ground.

The brick wall is cold against your back, and you’ll regret leaning against it, but it takes some of the weight off your feet. You look fantastic in these heels, but god do they get exhausting. You close your eyes to the false fireflies and inhale, acrid smoke washing over your taste buds. Then you look to the sky and release it into the wild, watch the cloud form as though covering the moon, then disippate, like it hadn’t been there, but you still feel the effects.

Somebody leans on the wall next to you. There’s another tiny ball of light in the darkness, and you watch it move to the tip of a cigarette, and the light hits a face and spreads across it like a fireplace on a winter’s night. Then it is gone, and there’s only the smoldering end to half light the stubble and mole of the man who keeps managing to make your heart skip a beat. You should be dead by now it’s jumped so many times.

“What are the chances….” Norman pauses, and even in the dark, you can tell he’s looking you over. “That I could see that painting in person?”

Your breath catches in your throat, and your mind is going a million miles per hour. You feel like a deluded fangirl for even entertaining the possibility, but could he want to see something more than the portrait. Calm down, not everything in life was about sex. Still.

“I can bring it to my booth tomorrow or… Shift ends in two hours, the last bus comes at two and ten minutes.” Your voice is calm, collected… seductive. “If you want to see it tonight you could get me before the bus does.”


End file.
